


Coalescence

by ZephyrEden



Series: Crossroads [1]
Category: Coalescence, Crossroads (Series), Original Work
Genre: Hunters & Hunting, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, On the Run, Road Trips, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy, Violence, warnings and rating subject to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZephyrEden/pseuds/ZephyrEden
Summary: When Desmond wakes up he has no idea where he is, why he's there, or how he got there. He's not even sure that Desmond is his real name. What he does know is that the girl - demon - smirking at him from across the room that now has ownership of his soul is willing to help him get his memories back so he supposes, as long as he isn't tortured and killed any time soon, that things could possibly be worse.He could really do without one of the most powerful demons in the world chasing after her, though.





	1. Part One: The Deal

The sun is unforgiving as it rises to its peak, heating the sands and scorching any soul that dares to wander along its path. The air shimmers in the heat, a cruel trick to any who believe in the false hope of water up ahead.

A young man trudges through the endless desert. His body is slow, his limbs dragging as he staggers onwards, his lips cracking without any moisture to part them. His clothes are torn, limply hanging from his haggard body, but he doesn’t have the energy to tear them off. His bag grows heavier on his shoulder with each step, weighing him down without regard. He stops and stares down at it, knowing he should just drop it and move on. Instead, he tightens his grip on the strap and continues on in the direction he assumes is forward. With his current luck, he’s probably walking in circles.

He glares at the sun as it moves across the sky, its pace so leisurely that it seems like an injustice above all things. He tries to sigh, defeated, but the breath gets caught in his throat. He coughs harshly, stumbling forward as his lungs burn through the fit, exerting more energy than he had to spare. It takes a while, but he finally catches his breath. The urge to sigh is still there. He isn’t inclined to try it again.

He lowers his head and keeps walking, a momentary determination filling each step before it fades again and he’s left to trudge an exhausted shuffle. He wonders distantly how long he’s been walking for. More than a day, at least; past that, he can’t much remember.

What he does know is that he hasn’t stopped walking in hours, moving straight through the night as the frigid air sets in. He wraps his arms around himself, a feeble attempt to keep warm proved further futile when a small breeze whips past and cuts through the tears in his clothing, chilling him to the bone. He wants to curl up in the sands, a desperate need to end the constant ache in his body from the nonstop walking.

He doesn’t remember why he’s walking in the first place. He doesn’t even remember how he ended up in this god forsaken desert. He tries to stop walking, eventually, and regrets it immediately. It’s beyond despairing, once he digs his feet into the earth to force an end to the movement, a feeling of unfathomable dread welling up inside him until he starts moving again. The noose doesn’t lighten, but it loosens.

He settles for closing his eyes as he continues on his trek, not even bothering to attempt to shield himself from the cold or the particles of sand that accost his skin. He’s not sure how long has passed before the air starts to warm again, the sun beginning its journey across the sky once more.

Narrowed eyes find the sun again and he silently curses it in his head, his mouth too dry and sandpapery to do it aloud. He looks around the expanse of sand without even knowing where he’s going, surrounded by the same view in all directions. Why is he doing this? He stops walking, ignoring the nauseating sensation boiling in his stomach. He clenches his fists in his hair with all the strength he can muster. There has to be a reason why he’s doing this, there _has_ to be. He tries to pull at any threads of knowledge floating in his brain, but there’s nothing that offers any give.

The pain in his stomach is starting to make him sick, the feeling of bile rising in the back of his throat an obvious testament to that. A sudden sharp pain pierces through his skull, his knees buckling from the force of it. Grasping his head with one hand, he tries to hold himself up as acid bubbles past his lips. He tries to spit it out, but it sticks to his dry mouth like glue. He chuckles to himself silently as he sinks fully to the ground, ignoring all the pain building up in his body.

Half buried in the sand, he once again begins to think about why he’s here wandering the desert in the first place. He tries to remember anything about what happened before he started walking here, but is only rewarded with another sharp pain raking through his head. He pries his lips apart to scream, not surprised when little more than a gurgle comes out.

He resigns himself to die there – a man with no energy, no memories, and no reason to be here. He closes his eyes and tries to stop his being from shuddering at the constant agony now coursing through his frame. Curling up on himself, he prays his death is quick.

A shadow crosses in front of his eyelids and blocks out the sun. He forces his eyes open to look up at the source of relief.

A silhouette stands in from of him, the figure shadowed by the blinding sun rays that dance behind them. They stare at each other for a moment before the figure speaks.

“Would you like me to end this pain?”

“Ha,” he mutters, somehow speaking with a sandpaper tongue sitting heavy behind his teeth. “Why? So I can wander through this hell for a while longer?”

The figure doesn’t move or speak as they continue to look down at him.

“No, I don’t want you to “end my pain,”” he bites out, almost surprised at the amount of bitterness he shoves into the words. “I’m either going to die here now or-“ His breath hitches at the prospect of more of this.

“What do you want then?” the figure questions.

He laughs again. “You’re probably just a figment of my imagination. Been out here too long and now I have heat stroke.” His breathing is becoming labored from talking so much, his lungs constricting with the effort after so long.

The figure shifts, their shadow cooling his body where it touches. “What is your purpose for being out here?”

“ _Purpose_?” It would almost be laughable if it wasn’t so devastating. “There is no _purpose_ ,” he spits. “There’s no reason for me-“ The words catch in his throat and he stops for a second, nodding to himself. “You want to help me out so bad? Give me that.” _A little closure for a dying man._

The figure bends down and holds out their hand. He swears he can see a blue glow radiating off of it in waves. “A purpose? That’s what you want?” The figure seems to mull it over. “Are you willing to pay the price for that?”

He stares wide eyed at the hand, dumbstruck by what he’s seeing. Or what he thinks he’s seeing at least, a rather intense delusion for a man on his deathbed he must admit. He nods slowly, without much thought, reaching out his hand before the figure pulls slightly back.

“Are you _sure_?” they ask again, more serious than before.

“Yes,” he chokes out as his dry throat begins to close up. He reaches out for a second time, eyes drooping from exhaustion as he teeters on the edge of unconsciousness. He just wants this to be over.

Suddenly, the other hand grasps his and envelops it in a blue haze. His limp body is yanked off the ground, his lips suddenly against another pair.

“ _Deal_ ,” the figure purrs as he loses himself to darkness.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He jolts into awareness through a fog of sweat, pain, and fear. Bolting upright, his hand flies to his head at the wave of dizziness the sudden movements cause him. His eyes are squeezed shut tight enough that he can see shapes dancing in the darkness and he finds that preferable when compared to the fear of what he’ll find when he opens them. He does open them, eventually, and the wave of relief that floods him when he realizes he’s not in the sweltering grasp of the desert is palpable. He would almost think that the entirety of the sandy hellscape was just a vivid nightmare if his body wasn’t in its current state.

The rags that were covering him before are gone and in their wake he finds a gauzy bandage wrapped tightly over almost the whole of his torso, his sun damaged arms covered in a thick slick gel. He looks at the scentless substance with mild disgust before his eyes drift back to the bandages. He thinks for a moment before daring to poke at his abdomen. He inhales sharply, a pained gasp that his throat chokes off the answer to that silent inquiry. His eyes squeeze shut, his teeth sinking into his lip before noticing the gel covering them as well.

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again. He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in or the bed he’s on and, when he gently pulls back the blanket he’s under, he doesn’t recognize the boxers he’s wearing either. What seems more familiar are the bandages winding around his legs, the same as the ones over his stomach and chest.

He inhales deeply once again, letting a calm settle over his mind before he swings his legs off the bed. He can feel the muscles in them working despite the overall sensation of them being dead weight, so he thinks it’s safe enough to stand. A wrong call, he finds out straightaway, as supporting the full weight of his body makes his knees buckles and sends him crashing to the ground.

He’s pushing himself up on shaky limbs when he hears the sound of something dropping followed by hushed swearing before someone walks in.

A girl glares down at him, the hair piled haphazardly on top of her head slipping when she tilts to look at him. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

He is frustrated, confused, and in pain. Accordingly, he replies without thinking. “Oh, just thought I’d get acquainted with the floor,” he answers with faux politeness, smiling tightly just to drive it home. He finds a bit of satisfaction in the way her eye twitches at the response.

She rolls her eyes before leaning down to carefully grab under his arms, lifting him back to the bed with ease. “You were in The Vast for at least a few days, though I’d probably count it to be a good while longer,” she explains, but a blankness crosses his face as he tries to connect what she’s getting at. She sighs, propping a hand on her hip. “You’re too weak to walk yet,” she says bluntly.

The movement jostles the bag hanging off her shoulder and his eyes go to it, the item familiar in a blurry sort of way. She follows his line of sight then nods. “Ah, yeah, this is yours.” She drops the beat up messenger bag on the bed next to him then moves to pull a chair from the corner of the room, sitting in front of him while leaving a bit of space between them. “Sorry,” she says, but doesn’t sound too apologetic. “Your clothes couldn’t be salvaged.”

He looks at the worn down leather of his bag and then at his bandaged body. “Yeah… They were pretty torn up, weren’t they?” he says quietly. There’s something he’s missing here, but he can’t figure out what.

She raises a brow, but nods in agreement. “You were pretty banged up yourself. Sunburnt to hell, as well.” She gestures vaguely to what he assumes must be injuries beneath the gauze and his bright red skin. “It took a while to even find you. You must have wandered half the place.”

He continues staring down, just nodding in turn.

She huffs at the lack of response. “It’s not every day you find someone just wandering around out there.” No reply. She takes a deep breath, studying him. “So, what’s your name?”

“What?” he questions back almost on impulse. He looks up in time to see the satisfaction flash across her face.

She reaches forward just enough to flick what appears to a leather luggage tag hanging off the bag. He grabs it, his thumb running over the embossed name of _Desmond Clarke_ that appears on it.

“You know,” she starts, pulling her arm back and it takes him a moment to realize she’s wearing gloves, the strangeness of it hitting him suddenly. “It’d be real stupid to wander around these parts with your real name hanging out like that,” she muses, looking at her covered nails in disinterest before a smirk forms on her lips, sharp teeth glinting. “So then, _Desmond_ ,” she calls, leaning forward with that amused look while her hand moves to cup her cheek. “Are you stupid or a liar?”

He’s stunned for a moment as he looks into her eyes – or the one he can see, at least, with the other being shrouded by a curtain of hair – and it’s the electric blue of the visible right that brings it back to him. The pain, the figure, the deal… _Deal?_ He starts moving his mouth, but can’t get the words to form.

Her brow furrows and she sits back, watching. “That’s not much of an answer, you know,” she drawls.

“I don’t know.”

Her eyebrow quirks again, “You don’t know?”

He rests his forehead against his fingers, rubbing the skin there before wincing at the burn. “I don’t remember,” he grunts.

She presses her lips together in a firm line, a new type of curiosity taking hold. “How did you end up in The Vast?” she questions.

He figures that to mean that horrific desert wasteland, not that it changes anything. “I don’t remember,” he answers again, growing more and more agitated by what he can.

“Then what do you remember?” she presses.

He looks back up, staring her dead in the eye. “What was the deal?” He can feel it in pieces – being covered in sand, being yanked off the ground, the ghost of lips against his. Tendrils of thought grasp at the strange sense of déjà vu that doesn’t sit right with him, the one that occurs whenever he sees her in his peripherals.

Her spine snaps straight, her face falling into carefully crafted neutral territory. “Well, I was hoping we could save this for later…” she murmurs, but when he doesn’t look away she sighs, averting her eyes. “You wanted a purpose,” she states simply, her voice much more reminiscent now of the monotone he heard in the desert.

“A purpose?” he balks, wide eyed.

“I asked you several times,” she says, just shy of defensive.

“I thought I was dying!”

“You were.” There’s no malice in her tone, there’s not much of anything at all, but the words still send a chill down his spine. She shrugs, “But that’s of little concern to me.”

He shakes his head, a sense of dread coiling in his gut. “How can you even say that?” he asks, a bit breathless.

She tilts her head as she looks at him, like he’s asking a stupid question. “You didn’t ask for me to save you,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He looks at her incredulously, his breathing becoming ragged. Really, of all people, this is who dragged him out of there? “So,” he breathes, looking down at his trembling hands. He mentally wills them to stop, exhaling slowly until they listen. “A purpose.”

“Correct.”

“And you gave me one?” He can hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth.

She nods firmly.

He closes his eyes, kneading them with his fingers as he tries to sort himself out. It takes a minute, but he finally opens them again and looks at her. “What is it?”

Something strange flits across her face before she answers. “Me,” she answers curtly.

That… wasn’t what he was expecting. He blinks a few times, taken aback. He doesn’t know how to respond other than repeating back, “You?”

She nods once more.

“Wha… What does that even _mean_?” he half shouts. He drops his head into hands, shaking it slowly. There’s something, an alarm, going off somewhere in the very back of his brain but, despite hearing it, he can’t grasp its meaning.

“You wanted a purpose, I gave you one. In exchange for a purpose, you gave me your soul.” She’s careful to enunciate each word, letting them settle heavily on her tongue and in his ears.

He immediately leaps back with more force than he knew he was currently capable of, slamming his back into the wall. His chest rises and falls in rapid succession, making him lightheaded in his sudden panic. He claws at his chest, gasping at the pain that flares in response, before lifting his head to her again.

She hasn’t moved in the slightest. Her eyes follow his movements, sharp and analytical, and her face remains blank until he starts tearing at the bandage. “Stop doing that. You’re going to reopen your wounds.”

He promptly ignores her, putting all of his strength into ripping the bandage away until he’s greeted by a large gash across his chest. The skin is pulled together tightly and glued shut, but it’s obvious enough to see how ghastly it must have been. “Did you do this?” he accuses, voice trembling, unable to look away from it.

Her brow furrows deeply. “You wandered in The Vast for days – possibly weeks – without realizing you were injured?”

He pries his gaze away from the injury to fixate on her, but doesn’t answer her question. “Why did you take my soul?”

A smirk quirks at the edges of her mouth at that and she leans forward for good measure. “What did you expect when making a deal with a demon?”

The air catches in his throat. He’s beyond hyperventilation now, he’s not even sure his lungs can pump oxygen anymore. “De- Demon,” he barely gets the word out and when he does it’s little more than a whisper.

“A half-demon, technically,” she specifies as she pulls back before pursing her lips. “Preferably.”

“W-what a-are you going to do with m-me?” he stammers. A misplaced sense of fear easily consumes him, more powerful than it should be, and he has no idea why or where the feeling is originating from.

At that she stands, freezing him in place. She sighs, lightly grasping his shoulders so she can maneuver his body before pushing him, making him lay down. She takes the bag off the bed, dropping it on the ground, and yanks the blanket back over him. “ _Sleep_ ,” she coos and he finds there something different to her voice, something more, but he can’t place it. “We’ll talk when you’re no longer putting your life at risk.” She moves away, closing the curtains over the single window and turning off the light. “You’ll have no purpose if you’re dead,” she lilts easily, though sharpness underlines her tone.

The door clicks shut and he shudders in the darkness, left cold by the sudden silence. He takes a breath. His brain is running so quickly that he doubts he’d be able to sleep even if he wanted to, let alone when he’s more concerned with a dozen other thoughts. There’s a yawn, though, and then a heaviness to his eyes that he can’t fight. He reluctant lets them fall shut and as soon as he does he’s asleep.

She waits a few minutes before she walks from the bedroom door to the small kitchen, hands clenched into tight fists as she moves. Her body is tense enough that it makes her tremble, her eyes screwing shut as she breathes harshly through her nose. Jaw clenched, she mentally berates herself, slamming her fist onto the counter so the tile beneath it breaks though no sound emanates from the wreckage. “You better hope this works,” she hisses to herself, her voice not as strangled when it’s coming from between her teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

Desmond wakes up and he doesn’t feel entirely in his own head when he does. There’s a trace of heaviness left to his eyes that feels a bit unnatural and a thick fog hanging over his mind that he doesn’t think is from sleep, the feeling too familiar to that of his mental state when wandering the desert. He ignores it in favor of blinking away the tiredness and, while it relieves the temporary droop to his eyes, it does little for the exhaustion still lining his bones.

There’s a churning in his stomach underlined by a persistent pain that leaves him nausea and aching, a rush of dizziness making it hard to see straight once he sits up. He screws his eyes shut and breathes harshly through his noise, trying to force the feeling away before he does anything else. It passes, eventually, and when he opens his eyes again he’s left in the same silence he was in before he fell asleep, however long ago that was.

He assumes it has to have been a while now as he looks around since the curtains on the window have been drawn back. He squints past the glass, trying to gauge the time of day at least, only to find a sea of dark clouds covering a sky that could have been from early morning or late evening. Either way, it’s of no help to him.

His stomach starts gurgling again in an ominous way and he knows he’s going to be sick. He whips his head around, looking frantically for a trash can or anything he can use, but only finds a door on the other side of the nightstand next to his bed. He swings his legs off the bed and hopes that this attempt goes more smoothly than the last one. It does, somewhat, because when his legs start shaking and collapsing under him there’s a chair for him to grab hold of for balance. It takes him a second to remember why it’s there.

_“What did you expect when making a deal with a demon?”_

A chill runs down his spine as the memory of her words echo around in his head, but it’s soon overtaken by the searing pain creeping up his throat. He looks back to the door and pushes himself from the chair to it, hands clambering for the knob. He desperately hopes that it’s a bathroom.

It’s surprising when his hopes are actually answered, but he doesn’t have much time to be thankful when he’s falling towards the sink. His fingers curl around the edges with a white knuckled grip, pain rippling through his body as he heaves the nonexistent contents of his stomach onto the ceramic. He’s exhausted by the time it’s over, sweat dampening his trembling skin, and he has to spend a minute fumbling for the faucet handle just to turn the water on. It’s when he can finally raise his head again that he realizes there’s a mirror.

He stares at the reflection for minute before it really sinks in, that the face before him is unfamiliar in every regard. It’s striking and frightening in a way, to see what he knows must be his own face following his movements without being able to remember ever seeing it before. His eyes study the reflection critically, committing it to memory. A tangled mess of white hair falls past his shoulders and into light violet eyes, the strands dried out and sun bleached and entirely unkempt. There are several patches of skin where the burnt pieces are peeling up, a decidedly paler tone being revealed beneath them that he assumes to be his natural color. He starts to lean closer to the mirror when things start to get hazy. He rubs at his eyes, brow furrowing, but the blur doesn’t go away. He looks around, noticing a lot of things that look like their edges are blurring.

He takes a step back and shakes his head, turning the sink off and stumbling back into the bedroom.

 

~ ~ ~

 

When he wakes up again, the first thing he feels is the blanket over him and he can’t remember how he got back in bed. What he does remember, though, is the face in mirror and that makes him jolt up. He turns to look at the bathroom, but his eye catches on the nightstand and the small plate of food on top of it. It’s nothing too special – two pieces of toast with some kind of thin sliced meat on top of it, a mug of cooling tea beside it – but he’s more concerned with bathroom’s closed door, one that he definitely remembers leaving open. A sense of despair settles over him, one that tells him he dreamt the whole thing.

He gets out of bed quickly, using the chair for balance again as he pushes open the door. But there’s the mirror again and there’s his face again – white hair, peeling skin, purple eyes – just like he remembers.

 

He doesn’t need to remind himself that it’s real the next time he wakes up, but he finds himself studying his reflection again. It’s a strange sort of habit that formed rather quickly, but he can’t stop. There’s something strangely fascinating about inhabiting a body he can’t recall. Some part of him wonders if the demon found a way to put his soul into a different body or if this was the one he always had.

 

The only thing that seems to change over the passing days is his growing strength, no longer needing the chair to balance after two days, and his injuries that seem to be healing at an unnaturally rapid rate. He pokes at his chest, the bandages tighter now than they were before he pulled at them, and finds the sharp pain gone, only a dull aching that reminds him it’s still there. His skin is almost done peeling and now he notices the slightly darker freckles lining his arms and parts of his face, likely a result of the sun damage, and he tries to remember if they had been there before. The sharp pain in his head tells him thinking on it is a bad idea, not stopping until he’s lying down again with his eyes squeezed shut.

 

He assumes that it’s been about a week now – if his sleep schedule is anything close to normal, which is debatable – and he’s starting to get restless. He’s not sleeping as much and it doesn’t hurt just to be awake, but he’s not sure if he’s ready to venture outside the bedroom door just yet. Not when he knows who is likely on the other side.

The sun is shining through the window, bathing the room in light and he follows the rays with his eyes, trailing them to where they reach a leather bag half shoved under the bed. Curious, he pulls it up from the floor and sets it on his lap, eyes catching the tag that _she_ had read a name off of before. His fingers gingerly run over the worn leather of the bag before he opens it for the first time that he can recall. He had never bothered to search it while he was wandering the desert and as he empties the contents onto the bed he knows that they wouldn’t have helped him if he had.

There’s only books inside, most of them aged with fraying edges and yellowed pages, none in any language that he can understand. There’s one book in particular that catches his attention, though, mostly for its lack of really being a book. It’s just a cover made of soft leather, much like the bag it was in, but it’s the purple stone embedded into the surface that really catches his eye, the stone still sparkling despite the desert grime lining the rest of his supposed possessions. He opens it and sees the damaged spine, the pages torn out. A muted growl leaves his throat before he even realizes he’s made it and he’s not sure why the reaction was even triggered, but it leaves him with a burning beneath his ribs that’s closer to anger than anything else. He sees a flicker of gold in his peripherals and he turns his gaze to the inside of the front of cover where a name is written in gold lettering. Desmond Clarke.

“Desmond…” he says quietly, feeling the way the name settles on his tongue. It feels just as foreign as his reflection does. Is that even his name? It’s the same one on the tag, the same one _she_ had pointed to before, but he can’t say if it’s his.

He tries to rack his brain for answers, a tingling of pain starting to flare at the effort. There has to be something, anything, just some scrape for him to grab on to. He chews the inside of his cheek, so absorbed in his own thoughts that when there’s a gentle knocking at the door he doesn’t lose his concentration. “Come in,” he says without much thought and it takes the door actually opening for him to realize what he’s done.

The door opens slowly, a hesitance behind the action, before it reveals the same girl – _demon_ – from before.

He freezes at the sight, his fingers tightening around the cover as his body sets into rigid tenseness.

“Ah,” she says quietly, a casual air to the word. “You’re actually awake this time.” She averts her eyes so she’s not looking at him, a slight pout forming on her lips at how shaken he is just at the sight of her. She sighs when he doesn’t move and silently enters the room. It’s not until she’s near him that he decides to breathe again, inhaling raggedly, and it makes her look at him past the curtain of hair, one eyebrow raising pointedly. She doesn’t say anything, just takes the plate of uneaten food and turns to leave.

It’s when she’s halfway out the door and pulling it closed behind her that he finally manages to find his voice again. “Wait.”

She pauses, still not looking at him, and he doesn’t miss the way that her body tenses similarly to his own. For what reason, he can’t fathom.

He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves. “I want to talk to you,” he forces out.

It takes a minute, but she nods and steps back into the room, leaving the door half open. She moves to the chair that’s still sitting by the bed, albeit a bit closer ever since it became a crutch, and gestures to it.

“Go ahead,” he says after a beat, understanding the silent question.

She sits down and he realizes how much closer she is this time, but doesn’t tell her to move. Instead, he watches as she picks up one of the pieces of toast from the plate and starts eating it. “Waste not, want not and all that,” she says around the bite, looking just to the left of his eyes. She holds out the plate with the other piece on it. “You should eat. You might be healing, but your body can hardly function without fuel.”

It doesn’t feel much like a suggestion. He takes the plate, setting it on top of the book in his lap, but doesn’t move to eat it. He looks at her as she continues eating and figures her lack of talking is her way of waiting for whatever he wanted to say. So, he goes for it. “I want my soul back,” he states simply.

She polishes off the piece of bread and a noise leaves the back of her throat, a small whine that prompts her to clear it before responding. “I can’t do that.”

He leans back against the pillows, sighing with a small deprecating smile. “I figured it wouldn’t be that easy.” He watches as she brushes the crumbs off her gloves before she sets them in her lap, fingers tightly laced together. “You don’t have to be so nervous around me,” he jokes, as if a demon would be nervous around someone they owned.

She lets out a long sigh followed by a chuckle, shaking her head as she leans forward and settles her forehead at the edge of the bed. “You wouldn’t be so calm if you knew who you were dealing with.”

He stares at the back of her head in mild confusion. “I’m assuming I’m dealing with the person that owns me now,” he says bluntly.

She turns her head slightly, dark brown hair pooling around her face as one bright blue eye trains on him. “Interesting,” she muses. “Is that how it is?”

His brow furrows, “Shouldn’t you know?”

She shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “Maybe, but you’re the first soul I’ve ever owned.”

He stares back her, fixated on her eye that seems to almost glow. It reminds him of being back in that desert, of their hands when they made the deal. He lifts his right hand and inspects it, as if expecting a remnant of that light to be there. “So then… What’s my purpose?” He goes back to being transfixed by her eye. “I’m assuming you know that much.”

“So many assumptions with you,” she lilts causally, the corner of her lips quirking up. “But I already told you – I am. You live for me now.”  She sits back up after she says it, rolling her head back so she’s looking at the ceiling. “How terribly original.”

A laugh escapes before he can stop it at the sudden turn to self-deprecation. “Well,” he starts, “It does seem to be a bit of a cop-out.”

She laughs at that, half snorting in response. “Trust me, I’m aware. I just… It was the best course of action.” She looks back at him, finally meeting his eyes with her blue one. “I didn’t want to leave you to die,” she finally says. “And if someone else found you, then I can assure you that would have been the case.” She looks like she’s debating with herself for a moment before she huffs. “That, and I figured you could probably be useful, what with the current state of things.” She shifts uncomfortably, crossing her arms beneath her chest. “Not that you need to be concerned with such things yet.”

He’s shocked, to say the least. Not just at her honesty, but at the recognition that he feels comfortable around her. When did he get so relaxed? He gazes at her warily, wondering if she has anything to do with it. After staring for a bit too long, he closes his eyes and sighs. “May I ask the name of the one I’ll be serving, then?” He cringes at his own formal politeness.

That garners another laugh from her. It’s a harsh sound that, despite contrasting her current disposition, feels more natural than anything that’s come from her before. “Seven,” she answers with a curt nod, reigning herself back in. “And yours?” she asks despite being the one to tell him it in the first place, gesturing to him with her hand.

It feels like an out, like if he chose a different name right now she would honor it despite knowing he’s lying, but it also feels like he would be betraying something unnamable if he did it. So he doesn’t take it. “Desmond… I think,” he answers.

“Ah, so stupidity was the answer after all,” she muses with a smirk and he’s too caught up in being put out by the comment that he doesn’t notice when her expression shifts to something more inquisitive. “You don’t remember anything, do you?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t even know where I am,” he says honestly.

She continues to stare at him, narrowing her eyes as they seem to look past him. “Carmen, a town in the New Mexico territory of The Vast. You were wandering around the desert that makes up most of it for at least a week before I found you.”

She leans in close to him so their faces are only inches apart. He can see her left eye now through her hair, the iris of it glowing an intense pink. He swallows, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat and the heat in his face from her sudden proximity. “W-What?”

“I couldn’t be completely sure until you were awake,” she says, blinking slowly before pulling back. “Your memories have been stolen,” she states plainly. “A curse, in a manner of speaking, though whoever went about it did it in an odd way. I can retrieve them for you, if you-“

“No!” he shouts in a sudden panic that he doesn’t know the origin of. He begins to hyperventilate and he recognizes the familiar feeling, too similar to the one that welled up when he stopped walking in the desert for it to be coincidence.

Her gaze stays locked on him, but she doesn’t do anything. She leans back in her chair, lips remaining closed for the handful of minutes it takes him to calm down. When it does subside, she speaks again. “It seems the curse is still taking priority somehow, which is _irritating_ ,” she spits the word, “considering the circumstances, but oh well. Nothing to be done about it.”

“What…” he trails, trying to catch his breath, ignoring the icy feeling the panic left in his spine. “What are you talking about?”

“I own your soul,” she says simply. “A deal is powerful magic and ours should be taking priority over anything interfering with it, but it’s not. It’s the retrieval circumstance in particular that seems to be taking priority. Likely something along the lines of not using magic or outside sources to get them back. It’s what’s giving you all these horrible head pains, I’d imagine. Certainly nothing unheard of, but these things tend to have loopholes. In your case, though… Well, you must have made someone _very_ angry if they didn’t want you to remember this badly. That’s probably the reason the curse is structured so oddly, so that even with me dispelling what I could it would remain intact.”

His head is spinning, trying to process everything she’s saying, but he can’t say he’s entirely keeping up. He nods anyways.

She seems to realize as much, choosing to change the subject. “I’d like to check your wounds, if that’s alright with you.”

He blinks and glances down at chest. He nods, moving the books and plate from his lap to the side of the bed.

He watches her gloved hands reach towards him, moving methodically as they tear through the bandage like its little more than tissue paper. The lengths of gauze fall away and reveal a thin scar stretching from his left shoulder to right hip. Her fingers ghost along the length of it, making him shiver. “Looks like it’s all healed. You’re lucky you didn’t have any internal injuries.” She pulls the covers off of his legs and begins tearing at the bandaging there. A few white scars deface his legs, nothing more than that. “Your skin is looking a lot better.”

His eyes dart from his chest to his legs to his arms. “What did I look like when you found me?” he asks, the words uttered so quietly that he wasn’t sure she could even hear him.

She points to his chest and starts speaking rather analytically. “You had a large gash there and a lot of dried blood on your torso because of it. Luckily, it wasn’t infected too badly.” She moves her fingers to his legs. “Numerous scratches on your legs filled with toxin. You must have run through some type of thorn patch, not uncommon in The Vast.” She gestures to his face and arms, “Severe sun damage to your exposed skin resulting in some discoloration and peeling. You also had a bad case of heat stroke. Whoever dropped you in the desert must have put a spell on you so you wouldn’t die immediately, though it had long since run its course by the time I found you.”

He stays silent, taking in her explanation. “I should be dead,” he states, no feeling in the words.

“Maybe,” she half agrees. “But likely not. It’s more probable that they wanted you to be found, that’s why there was so much blood. We could smell you from the city, which means if I didn’t find you someone would have. Regardless, I think it’s better for the both of us that you’re not dead.” She stands up and stretches, giving him a small reassuring smile. “You’re a special guy, Desmond. There’s a reason someone doesn’t want you to remember that.”

He stares at her blankly, not really sure what to make of the words.

She looks at him with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t dwell on it if it’s going to make your head hurt.” She reaches out a hand to him, “Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking her hand without hesitation and allowing her to pull him up into a standing position.

“Good.” She turns him towards the bathroom and gives him a light shove that makes him trip over his own feet. “There are some clothes in there, hopefully they’ll fit. Go wash the sleep from your eyes and meet me in the kitchen when you’re done, straight out the bedroom door.”

“Why?” he questions, stumbling into the bathroom.

“Do you want to live in a single pair of boxers for the rest of your life?” she drawls pointedly with a quick glance down.

A flush rises to his face as he becomes conscious of the fact that he’s practically naked in front of her. He slams the bathroom door shut as he hears her laughing from the other side. He runs his hand down his face as he slides to the floor.

He looks around and sees some clothing on top of the hamper in the corner of the small room and he pulls himself up to grab them. He pulls on the pair of baggy grey sweatpants and the loose fitting white tank top. They don’t necessarily _fit_ , but at least they aren’t falling off him. He groans as he walks to the sink, turning on the water as he stares at his reflection. He doesn’t even look the same as he did a few days ago. The burnt blotches on his skin have faded back to a pale complexion that doesn’t look sickly anymore, leaving a smattering of darker freckles in their wake. His eyes look a bit sunken in, the dark bags under them a startling contrast to their pale frame. He quickly looks away and splashes water on his face, but they don’t wash away.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven drums her fingers on the table in steady repetition, ignoring the cup of coffee she poured before sitting down. Really, what was she doing? This whole plan, if it could even be called that, was crazy even by her own skewed standards.

Darkness flashes over her features as she recalls _why_ she’s doing this. She stops drumming her fingers as she feels an uncomfortable twinge on her back, her fingers fisting into the fabric of her shirt to keep from scratching at it. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, releasing her grip and smoothing the fabric back down. “ _You were driven to this_ ,” she reminds herself, steeling her resolve.

She fidgets with the glove in her hand, staring at the contrast between her bare skin and the dark fabric. She sighs, shoving it into the pouch hanging off her hip and instead fishing for the phone inside it. She pulls out the device and stares at the screen blankly as she scrolls through the recent news, wondering if anything strange has come into town recently. Well, besides the oddity she’s housing herself. There’s the sound of someone entering the room and her eyes jerk up to meet Desmond’s.

“Apologies,” she starts, pressing her lips together in an attempt to suppress her laughter. She stands, walking closer to him to inspect the baggy clothing hanging off his thin frame. “It was the only thing I could really offer that wouldn’t be too small.”

He scowls at her before his gaze catches the way her hair falls to cover her left eye completely once again, how it frames her jaw and the small delightful smile it holds towards his apparent displeasure.

Her sight snaps up to his again, an eyebrow raising when she notices him staring for a moment too long. “Do you like what you see?” she purrs teasingly, a hint of mischief in her eye. “Serving me isn’t such a bad prospect anymore, is it?” She watches his face flush crimson before her own catches up, both of them quickly averting their eyes. She starts chuckling and it sounds a tad uncomfortable and forced. “Ah…”  she trails, taking a few steps back to put some distance between them. “It was only a joke. Excuse my poor taste,” she mumbles, a gloved hand rising to cover her mouth.

He laughs loudly and suddenly and doesn’t miss the way she startles ever so slightly. He shakes his head, mystified. “Surely, you are no normal demon.”

Her hand falls to reveal a more somber smile now, one that has her head turning away from him. “You could say that,” she offers then shakes her head, seeming to force the feeling away. She offers him a more genuine smile – _are those fangs he sees?_ – as she points to the front door. “Are you ready to go?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, already walking towards the door.

He stumbles after her, slipping into the too small sandals she points to next to the door before following her outside and down the stairs of what he now recognizes to be some sort of apartment complex. He looks around as soon as his feet hit the ground, squinting against the sudden influx of blinding sunlight.

The town doesn’t exactly look archaic, but it’s a far cry from modern. Plain looking buildings line the streets, many with colorful awnings attached to the walls to provide shade from the relentless sun. Dozens of vendors are set up beneath them, many of them loudly haggling with customers over their wares.

Seven grabs his wrist and he’s shocked for a second to feel skin against his own, but is distracted from the sensation as she begins to pull him through the busy streets. She tugs him close enough to pull down, turning her head slightly to whisper in his ear. “Try not to make eye contact with anyone. I just need to get a couple things taken care of then we can go to a mall or something; some place far from here.”

Curiosity piqued at her words, he immediately starts looking around while trying not to settle his eyes anywhere. Half of the merchants he sees don’t look anything remotely close to humans nor do the people buying from them. The products themselves don’t even look real, ranging from strangely shaped plant materials to shimmering jewels that radiate with nauseating levels of toxicity. He knows he’s getting too distracted and before he knows it, one of the vendors is staring straight at him and he isn’t quick enough to look away before accidentally locking eyes with him. The man has grey skin that holds piercing red eyes, reminiscent of smoldering coals. Small horns pierce out from his temples and contort his face into something inhuman.

He freezes, unable to look away. The vendor’s eyes begin to glow. “You’re not a very sharp listener, are you, boy?” he asks in a gravelly voice that pricks at Desmond’s ears, almost as if he was speaking directly into them despite the distance between them.

“Wow,” Seven drawls and she would almost sound impressed if it wasn’t for the critical edge to her voice. “It took you all of sixty-five seconds to disregard everything I said.” She huffs in annoyance and drags him closer to stall. She holds his arm up once they stop in front of it, her fingers tightening their grip on his wrist. “Hey, Hajar,” she greets nonchalantly. “And yes, he is a terrible listener.”

A deep rumbling laugh leaves Hajar’s stomach, but his eyes are set firmly on her hand. He nods to it after a moment. “So then, you really have claimed this boy? I didn’t think you would ever do such a thing.”

She smiles knowingly. “Nor did I, but certain circumstances came about.”

He nods in agreement. “Fate has a way of doing that.”

She scoffs at that, dropping Desmond’s arm so she can physically wave away the topic before bringing in a new one. “Have you seen Jonesy around? That little goblin owes me _quite_ a bit from our last round of bets.”

He chuckles again, “Oh, I’ve seen him alright and he’s avoiding _you_ like the plague. But, to save us all the trouble of dealing with you, he left me with this.” Hajar leans underneath the counter and pulls out a bag, dropping it in front of her with a thump. “That should be most of it, at least. You should be glad that your boy stopped you now,” he says with a fanged grin.

“I have a name,” Desmond grumbles under his breath in annoyance. Granted, he just learned it himself and it’s still possible that it’s _not_ his name, but it bothers him nonetheless.

Hajar glances back at the boy who is quietly seething in front of him, earning himself another hearty chuckle. “Do you now?” he questions, leaning forward over the counter. “And what would that be?” His grin seems to take a malicious turn.

“Desmond,” he hisses back.

Seven sighs, shaking her head. “Still choosing stupidity, it seems.”

Desmond’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t have a chance to respond.

“Well, _Desmond_ ,” Hajar drawls out, like he’s tasting the name. “Let me tell you a thing or two about your master over here. Seven can be just as sweet as she is deadly, capable of razing this town to the ground just as fast as she can resurrect it. She is a treasure to all of us here and she _owns_ you now. She is your goddess now and you should be on your knees worshipping her, thanking her for being the one to claim your soul.”

Seven clears her throat, obviously uncomfortable, and grabs the bag. “Don’t tell him things like that,” she hisses, her voice low, but serious.

“Why not?” Hajar continues, unfazed. “He is clearly ungrateful. Does he even realize the things you could do to him? Does he not know the things people will do to get their hands on a soul like his?”

“A soul like mine?” Desmond questions, looking to Seven.

She slams her fist on the counter, making their section of the market go silent, and they both see the way her eyes flare to red. “No, he doesn’t,” she practically snarls, “and I prefer to keep it that way.” A second passes and she brings her hand back to her side, her eyes returning to normal while the rest of the crowd carries on about their business.

Hajar holds his large hands up in defense. “Okay, I get it. But Atticus is returning soon and I don’t imagine he’s going to let you get away easy.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” she huffs, petulant.

He exhales and smiles, eyes laced with concern. “That dryad is coming back to town tonight with your order,” she perks up at that, “and when you get it I need you to swear to me that you will mark him up well.” He waits for her to nod before continuing. “Until then, keep this on him. It should do for the time being.” He reaches up and pulls something from a hook above them before lowering it so they can see. It’s a small leather medicine bag with a swirling design on its center. He hands it to her.

She starts to pull payment from her bag, but he shoves it into her gloved hand before she can. “On the house,” he says in explanation. “I owe you, anyways.”

She bows her head slightly in gratitude, “Thank you.” She puts the gift and her winnings into the pouch at her side before grabbing hold of Desmond’s wrist once again, leading him away.

“Stay safe!” Hajar shouts after them as they disappear into the crowd.

They move away and it’s only a few moments later that Hajar and his stall are completely obscured from sight. They’re silent as they move through the sea of bodies, Desmond’s body somehow moving past them without colliding while Seven’s yanks him forwards. Her grip is exceedingly tight and it’s making him start to think that his wrist might be in danger of snapping. He doesn’t complain, though, not even as his heart starts hammering and his lungs start burning from exhaustion. He’s been resting for days now, he’d thought he was better; the fact that he’s not only serves to frustrate him further. He tries not to focus on it, instead opting to concentrate on the back of her head and the way the bright sunlight seems to make her dark hair shine golden. It’s as they reach a less populated section of the city that his body finally betrays him, his feet catching and steps faltering. He bumps into Seven’s back as she halts their movement.

He opens his mouth, about to apologize, only for the words to get stuck in his throat as he notices how tense she’s gotten again. She glances around cautiously and gives him only a passing look before yanking him into a nearby alleyway. He’s about to question her when his back harshly meets the hard surface of the wall as she presses against him, her hand firmly covering his mouth. He follows her gaze to the opening of the alley as a group of… _something_ walk past, all of them giving off an aura he can only describe as inhuman. He can’t look directly at them, not for lack of trying but because they seem to shift in and out of existence as the light from the sun pierces them. Their bodies flicker like shadows at edges of his peripheries.

A small noise leaves his throat and she presses against him harder as they pause. Her fingers dig into his cheek for half a second before she pulls him down with her, his body on top of hers while they hide behind some garbage and rotting crates. The sudden movements are making him dizzy, his breathing uneven as it pushes through her fingers.

“Stay quiet,” she mouths and the words are so quiet he isn’t sure she actually spoke them out loud. Her hand leaves his mouth only for both of them to cradle his cheeks and the edge of his jaw in a strangely tender hold. He forgets her warning, his lips already parting to question her. He feels everything around him go cold, as if the world has been frozen in time with a layer of ice, as she presses her forehead to his. His wide eyes cross and double his vision, staring at the blur that is her closed eyelids. It’s almost serene and far more intimate than he was prepared for. It’s like a heavy quilt is draping over him, its purpose not to warm but to blanket him, smothering something inside him.

Seven stays still, holding her breath as she listens for the sound of fading footsteps. She lets out a sigh when she hears it, one hand leaving Desmond to push herself up while the other goes to his shoulder to steady him as she moves out from beneath him. She leans him against the wall, finally taking notice of his labored breathing. “Are you okay?” she asks, oddly intense.

Desmond thinks he might see distress lining her face. He tries to nod, but the motion leaves him reeling. “I’m fine,” he forces out, blinking back the shadows at the edges of his vision, ones that aren’t caused by some otherworldly creatures this time. “Just a bit… light headed.”

She starts mumbling under her breath and he thinks she might be cursing, her hands going to the bag at her waist and pulling something out. There’s a small glass vial in her fingers and she pulls the cork sealing it out with her teeth. She holds it out to him, gesturing with her chin. “Drink this.”

He eyes it warily, but still raises a shaky hand to take it. It’s a struggle not to spill the small amount of liquid before it reaches his lips. He wants to gag the second it touches his tongue, the mixture bitter and syrupy in way that makes his jaw ache as he forces it down. He coughs as he drops the tiny bottle back in her hand, nose scrunching as he stares at it. “What was that?”

She pushes the cork back in place and puts it back in her bag, pulling out a glove instead. “An energy restorative,” she says, pulling the glove onto her bare hand so it’s now matching the other. “You should start to feel better within the next few minutes.” She digs through her bag once more, this time removing the object Hajar had given her earlier. She leans forward, looping the cord around his neck and tucking the bag at the bottom beneath his shirt. “That’s an enchanted item,” she explains, pressing one covered finger to it through his shirt. “It will cover your scent, so to speak.”

“S-scent?” He can already feel the wooziness starting to subside.

“You’ll come to understand in time.”

Despite the strength he can feel starting to course through his veins, his unease doesn’t fade. There’s usually only one thing someone follows a scent for. “So, those… they were-“

“Tracking you,” Seven finishes bluntly. “Hajar wasn’t exaggerating what he said before. I should have been more vigilant,” she adds beneath her breath.

“They want my soul?” he asks in disbelief. “Why? What’s so great about me- _it_ ,” he corrects quickly.

She smiles at him in a way that makes him unsure if it’s supposed to be patronizing or not. Maybe a little of both. “I’ll tell you later.” She stands and straightens herself out, removing the grime from her clothing with one harsh snap of her wrist. “For now,” she offers along with a gloved hand to help him up, “I’ll apologize.”

He arches an eyebrow but grabs her hand without hesitation. “For what?”

She smiles and this time he knows it’s meant to be patronizing for sure. “I’ll tell you later. In the meantime,” she leads him out of the alleyway and he’s shocked when just a few buildings away he sees what can only be described as a car service. “Ready to get some real clothes?”

 

~ ~ ~

 

There are very few things Desmond expected to experience today. Being threatened by a gargoyle and hiding from shadowy figures in a pile of trash were certainly at the bottom of the list. But so was being taken by a surprisingly normal, if not particularly tinted, car to a surprisingly normal mall filled with surprisingly normal (looking, at least) people.

He had argued when Seven first dragged him to the expensive looking salon inside, watched her dig through magazines when he didn’t have any opinion to offer on how his hair was cut. He tried not to flinch when the long strands were cut off all at once, bundled together in a ponytail that was easily sliced through until the length barely reached the base of his neck. He flinched anyways, and with the movement came something more that he couldn’t place.

He was pulled into a dozen other stores, going through racks and shelves of clothing all while Seven spoke to herself under her breath about sizes and styles and what seemed suitable for him to wear.

All of it, a train of unexpected things that lead to where he is now. He’s still not used to the featherlight ghosting of his hair across his brow, jawline, and cheeks. He’s definitely not used to seeing it, not after all the times he’s spent studying the split dried strands hanging past his peeling shoulders and marred chest.

It’s strange seeing all of him, but that’s exactly what the full-length mirror in the dressing room provides him a view of. With his hair cut and his sunburn and other injuries healed, he actually… looks normal.

“You almost done in there? Or do you need me to come in and help?”

He can see the blood rush up to his face in embarrassment which is what makes him turn away. He knows she wouldn’t, that she’s only teasing like she has every other time he’s gotten distracted today, but it does make him go faster. “Don’t you dare,” he hisses, fingers quickly buttoning up the shirt he’s trying on.

He’s not even sure why they’re _in_ this store. The loungewear was comfortable and he was grateful to have sweatpants that would actually fit, the casual wear seemed an obvious choice if he ever planned on going out in public again, and even the things he didn’t understand a need for he didn’t question, like buying winter wear in the summer. But this… he doesn’t understand why they’re in a store that seems to cater to suit wearing businessmen and no one else.

He tucks his shirt in and grabs for the waistcoat on the hook, sliding his arms through and buttoning that as well. He grabs for the tie she had thrown over the top of door after he first came in and loops it around his neck before he realizes he has no idea how to tie it. He sighs and leaves it undone as he opens the door.

Seven looks up from the large armchair she’s perched in, placing her phone screen-down on the arm as she stands to look him over. He looks sharp in the pair of black slacks and the crisp white button down, the purple of the vest and tie matching his eyes. She steps into his space without hesitation and grabs the ends of the tie, deft fingers easily weaving them into a Windsor knot. She reaches out to straighten his sleeves then takes a few steps back before circling him with a critical eye. She stops once she’s in front of him again, looking rather pleased with herself. “I must admit, you really do clean up nicely, Dez,” she says with a friendly smile and glint of mischievousness in her eye. “You look like a Hunter I could trust.” She turns away to pocket her phone before adding, “If I trusted Hunters, that is.”

He frowns. “What does that mean?”

“You go change back and I’ll go pay,” she says instead of answering.

He sighs. She’ll definitely be coming back with at least two more bags of clothing, he’s sure of it. He’s not sure of the actual expenses, as she’s only paid while he’s not around, but he’s quite certain this little spree she’s treating him to is anything but cheap. He just hopes it doesn’t come at a more… _personal_ cost to himself later.

He isn’t surprised when he finds four new bags added to the already ridiculous pile they’re (or, well, Seven is) carrying around. She picks them up easily, both hands full. He leans down to take one of the handfuls and she reluctantly loosens her grip, both of them splitting their shares into more manageable halves as they leave the store.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he notes. He follows her through the shopping center, noticing that once again they aren’t heading for the exit.

She looks over her shoulder, her blue eye mesmerizing at it catches his gaze. “I am. This is… kind of fun. I never do things like this. Besides,” she continues turning her head back to look forward, “it gives me something to do with all the money I’ve made during my days wasting away in Carmen.”

“Wasting away?” he repeats. He wants to know what she means by that but doesn’t get the chance to press further. “This is… an eye doctor’s?” he questions as they walk into a small store towards an emptier section of the mall.

“I dropped off your prescription a while back when you were trying on stuff,” she says nonchalantly, waiting for one of the employees at the counter. “Hope you don’t mind the frames I picked out. If you hate them, we’ll order new ones.”

He isn’t very concerned with frames. “How did you know my prescription? How do you know I even _need_ glasses?”

She tilts her head. “Lucky guess?” she says coyly before winking purposefully with her blue eye. “Magic, perhaps?” She snorts out a laugh and gives him a more pointed look. “And really did you think I wouldn’t notice? You squint at everything.”

An employee brings out the case that holds the new glasses and she eagerly drops her bags to take it. She opens them and unfolds the frames to show them off. “You like?”

The frames are simple, just black half frames that wrap around the sides and bottom of the lenses while leaving the top exposed. “Yeah,” he nods. He enjoys the grin he gets in response.

“Now then,” she starts as she reaches up to put them on him. He remains perfectly still as he feels the cool metal slide over his ears. “Let’s just see how they… look…” she trails.

Desmond’s eyes suddenly focus and the world around him snaps into startling clarity. His eyes are locked with hers and now, seeing them clearly for the first time, he takes notice of the thin golden ring circling both of her irises. The color in them is alive and vibrant, the gold actively swirling around them like molten liquid. Even the pink now is clear enough that he can make out the strange brightness of it from between the small spaces in her hair.

Seven hasn’t dropped her hands yet, staring just as intently into his eyes as if she’s able to see past them until she’s able to do just that. She startles and pulls her hands away, taking a step back to put more distance between them.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” he blurts out without thinking. He can feel the heat instantly creeping up his neck and into his cheeks.

She averts her eyes. “Thanks,” she nods, visibly flustered. “Yours are, as well.” She snaps the case shut and tosses it into one of the shopping bags, picking them up and clenching them in her fists. “Well then, I think it’s about time for us to be heading back.”

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and settings featured in the Crossroads series are original creations owned by me.
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/deepseasalt_) | [tumblr](http://thewritingvoid.tumblr.com) | [carrd](http://zephyreden.carrd.co)


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